


Eight Evenings in the Kitchen

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Baking, Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes' Family, Cheesecake, Chicken Soup, Comfort Food, Cooking, Food, Hanukkah, Hell's Kitchen, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Latkes, M/M, New York City, Pizza, doughnuts, latke discourse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-05 19:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16816540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: The Barnes-Rogers Hanukkristmas season was always going to be one spent almost exclusively in the kitchen.





	1. Doughnut Season

The Barnes-Rogers Hanukkristmas season was always going to be one spent almost exclusively in the kitchen.

That was the thing about growing up between two cultures, thought Bucky: with a Presbyterian dad on one side, and a Jewish mom on the other, it never meant twice the religious stuff, but rather almost none of it at all. That was to say, apart from the food, which always seemed to be in impossible abundance, even when money was scarce and ingredients even scarcer. Somehow, Winifred Barnes could wrap a banana in day-old bread, bake it, and drown it in instant pudding, and a Michelin-starred chef would struggle mightily to outdo her.

Thus, Bucky thought back to his mother’s recipes when it came time to plan just what the hell they were going to do for the holidays.

“Listen, Buck, I gotta be honest with you.” Steve’s expression was pained with remorse, slumped over the kitchen counter. "I love your mother, you know I do, but… I hated her fruitcake.“

Bucky was stunned. Steve had always accepted a second slice of Mom’s Famous Fruitcake with enthusiastic thanks, while Bucky forced down as little of the dense, crumbly, cloying stuff as he could get away with - more of it ended up discreetly stuffed into a napkin.

"But… you…” Bucky could not help but laugh when it dawned on him. Of course, Steve was always a gracious houseguest, and that meant letting Mrs. Barnes feed him even when it tasted like a heavy, disappointing brick. As Bucky pulled him into a soft embrace, still shaking with laughter, Steve began to laugh too.

Steve’s reaction was much more enthusiastic when he suggested jam doughnuts for Hanukkah, even if it was no small miracle that they managed to deep-fry them without setting fire to the kitchen. He carefully turned the little puffy rounds as they bubbled away in the hot oil until they were golden, then set them to cool, while he attended to his jam - homemade, of course - of dark plums spiked with the warmth of a pinch of cinnamon, and the soft camphor of cardamom. Steve volunteered to fill the doughnuts, pressing a generous measure of jam into each one with his piping bag - and somehow managed not to get any on his shirt. A final dusting of icing sugar sat atop them like newly-fallen snow.

And as soon as their friends arrived that evening, the entire mountain of doughnuts disappeared in about 0.07% of the time it had taken to make them.

“Should we make this a new family tradition?” asked Bucky.

Steve smiled quietly, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder. "We’re a family,“ he said.

"Yeah,” Bucky agreed, applying a soft kiss to Steve’s hair. "Doughnuts?“

"Yeah, doughnuts.”


	2. Latke Discourse

"Are you sure we have enough toppings?"

Steve was not sure where exactly Bucky thought he was going to be able to place the large serving platter of latkes, given the magnitude and breadth of condiments already on the table. Steve, muttering "hot plate, hot plate, hot fuckin' plate," at increasing volume, tried to elbow a few bowls and jars away from the space between their seats before he suffered first-degree burns ( _through_ his oven mitts, no less). Eventually, Bucky got the message and helped reshuffle the buffet.

"Sorry," Bucky blushed, snapping out of his ostensible daydreams, and shifting the tzatziki to the other side of the prune butter.

Alongside the traditional sour cream and applesauce was an array of creative new accoutrements, including (but not limited to): creamed wildflower honey, caviar, redcurrant jam, Japanese mayonnaise, salsa verde, sriracha, wholegrain mustard, pickled ginger, mango chutney, and gravadlax with dill.

Steve remembered Hanukkah evenings at the Barnes abode: he remembered being enlisted to help prepare the food, then being shooed unceremoniously out of the kitchen after a good half dozen failed attempts to squeeze the water out of the grated potatoes, Bucky's mother declaring with equal measures of frustration and warmth that she would do it herself.

Steve could not begin to imagine what Winnie Barnes would make of their comprehensive spread. He liked to think that she would at least be proud of the way he and Bucky had finally worked up the strength to drain the potatoes properly. The fact that they managed to fry up that many perfectly golden latkes without setting off the smoke alarm, however: that was a Hanukkah miracle.

Steve carefully stabbed his fork into his first pancake, eyeing up the collected toppings.

"Where... where do I start?" he asked.

"You know what a good latke needs?" replied Bucky, foregoing his fork in favour of plucking one straight from the platter with his bare hands. "Absolutely nothing."

Bucky was not wrong: the interplay of the crispy exterior and silky, soft interior was in perfect balance, and the earthy potato was elevated by the sharp, sweet onion. It was perfect food.

"Then why did we get this... all of this?" asked Steve.

"Because we're nothing if not open to new experiences," Bucky shrugged, sprinkling a few dark little caviar pearls onto his second bite.

"I couldn't help but notice one thing, though," observed Steve. "You didn't get any ketchup."

"Don't be vulgar," admonished Bucky, with his mouth full.

"You're one to talk," laughed Steve. "I think I'm gonna start simple. Applesauce. No, chutney. Maybe both?"

Bucky dribbled a few drips of sriracha onto the rest of the latke.

"Look, I know this is kind of... overboard," he said quietly, "but... this is my favourite part of the year. I wanted it to be special."

Steve smiled, set down his fork, and folded Bucky into his arms.

"It's wonderful, Buck," he whispered into Bucky's shoulder. "Thank you."


	3. More Sour Cream

Bucky had not expected the sheer amount of dairy that Wanda had brought with her that afternoon; on the other hand, he was not sure _what_ he expected, if not dairy. Having spent some time elsewhere in eastern Europe, he could see a few common themes among the ingredients she piled onto the kitchen counter: besides the usual suspects (butter, sugar, flour, eggs) were heavy paper bags filled with poppy seeds and fresh walnuts, a small sachet of vanilla sugar, a couple of lemons, and two large tubs of full-fat sour cream.

"I haven't made these in years," she admitted, unwrapping the soft butter from its golden foil brick, and letting it fall into the mixing bowl with a satisfying thump. "But you don't forget it."

"What did you call these again?" asked Steve, preheating the oven.

Wanda said the word again, but Bucky missed all but the first syllable.

"Muh..." he began, tentatively.

"Makováč vírenieska," she repeated, with an affectionate chuckle. "Sokovian isn't easy, even for Sokovians. You can just call them cookies."

Into the mixing bowl went the butter, the flour, a pinch of salt, and sour cream. Bucky started with a tablespoon, then another tablespoon, then another, until he had exhausted an entire pot.

"That it?" he asked.

"If you think there's enough sour cream in the dough," she said, giving the soft mixture a poke with her index finger, "add another tablespoon of sour cream, just to make sure."

So he did, and to his surprise, it came together beautifully, into a sticky, elastic dough.

"Did you grow up eating these?" asked Steve, rolling the dough into a misshapen, thin rectangle.

"On special occasions." She smiled, that sad sort of smile that only seemed to come from people who had known great loss. "Not very often. But these are the best ones."

It seemed to Bucky that for someone who grew up an only child, Steve had well overcompensated in recent years by adopting a sprawling extended super-family. Seeing him working in tandem with Wanda, rolling and cutting the dough, Bucky could not help but be reminded of how kind Steve had been with his kid sister, Becca. She was younger than they were by a good ten years, but Steve had always had time for her enthusiastic ramblings about something new she had read in one of her science magazines.

Half the dough was cut into circles, carefully manipulated to surround little spoonfuls of the sweet walnut paste and rolled into chubby little balls, carefully scored with decorative patterns; on the other half, she spread thick poppy seed paste, then rolled into a cylinder.

"When you slice them, they look like little - " she twirled her fingertip in the air by way of illustration, leaving little spirals of luminescent magic in its wake, "like snails."

They emerged from the oven, light and flaky and rich and tender, and immediately sprinkled with a generous flurry of icing sugar. Bucky could see why Wanda treasured them: taste often had such close ties to memory, as he had learned in his long journey back to himself. Even without a personal history with these pretty little sweets, they had an immensely comforting taste to him.

“I’m gonna need the recipe for these,” he said.

“I’ll text it to you,” replied Wanda. “As for dinner, I don’t know if you two had something in mind, but…”

“But…?” asked Steve. Wanda smiled.

“Have you guys ever tried a deep-fried kebab?”


	4. Penicillin

Steve checked the thermostat again. The thermostat said the apartment was at optimal apartment temperature.

The thermostat was a liar.

He zipped up his heavy old cardigan and shuffled into the kitchen, enticed by the heavy fragrance of carrots and onions and rich roast chicken.

And there was Bucky... stirring a heavy cast iron stock pot.

"Thought we were doing a roast chicken."

"Change of plans," Bucky told him. "You're sick, so I'm making a pot of Jewish penicillin."

"I'm not sick," protested Steve, "I'm fine."

"The hell you are," countered Bucky, pressing the back of his hand to Steve's forehead. Steve could not help but lean into the comforting touch, in spite of himself. "Like I thought. Clammy as hell. Now sit, I'm making you soup."

"But I can't _get_ sick, Buck," said Steve, stamping down the rising shivers by sheer force of will.

"Don't insult my intelligence, punk." Bucky held Steve gently by the shoulders, and led him to the table. "Sit."

Steve did as he was told, if nothing else because the floor had made the very rude decision not to stay level that day.

"How am I sick?" he asked, knowing entirely well that Bucky would have no more of an answer than he did.

"Must be a really shitty virus," suggested Bucky.

"You should quarantine me, it could be dangerous." Steve pulled his hood over his head, covering as much of his face as the stretchy knit would allow, and pulling the drawstrings tight.

"Fine," Bucky agreed, carefully teasing Steve's face free of his fleece enclosure, kissing him tenderly on the cheek. "Soup first, then quarantine. In bed. I'll keep you company."  
Steve sighed. That soup really did smell good. "Okay, soup first."

It was not something Bucky made often anymore, but Steve could vividly recall being laid up for weeks over the winter, fed nothing but bowl upon bowl of Bucky's chicken soup, a beacon of fortifying warmth. He relished those little intimate gestures even then; indeed, as much as he protested, hated being a burden, loathed being doted upon, there was always something in the way Bucky's hand would linger slightly on his arm when he helped Steve up to eat, even before he knew precisely what that something was.

The soup was rich and intensely flavourful, the chicken tender, the parsnips and carrots meltingly soft. Steve's eyes fluttered shut with relief. He felt better already.

"Edible?" asked Bucky.

"Yeah, I'd say you've still got it," said Steve.

"Good," Bucky smiled, "this is gonna make about a month of leftovers."


	5. Ostkaka

"Greetings, friends!" declared Thor, brandishing a large, blue-rimmed enamel pie dish. "Many thanks for inviting me to your beautiful home. I made ostkaka."

"Ostkaka?" asked Bucky, placing the cake stand next to the coffee pot on the table while Steve took Thor's coat.

"It's a kind of cheesecake!" he beamed. "With jam and almonds."

Bucky smiled, hoping to conceal his worry. "Oh," he said softly. "I... I made us cheesecake too."

Thor's smile multiplied tenfold, his eyes widening with joy.

"You mean..." he said, teeming with excitement, "we get to eat _two cheesecakes_?"

Bucky smiled. "Well, when you put it that way..."

"This is the best day of my whole life," said Steve, rubbing affectionate circles into Bucky's back.

Bucky's cheesecake was dense and rich, with a base of buttery crumbs; Thor's was delicate and creamy, elevated by the sharpness of the lingonberry jam.

It was a good evening.


	6. New York’s Finest

“I can’t believe it’s taken Nat, what, six months to invite us over to her new place?” said Steve, as they rounded the corner onto the quiet Hell’s Kitchen street where Natasha had instructed them to be. “What number did she say her building was?”

“Probably the one she’s standing outside of right now,” observed Bucky.

Indeed, there was Natasha, stood outside what looked to be a nondescript pizza slice joint, staring intently at her phone.

“She... hasn’t invited us to her apartment, has she,” nodded Steve. He should have known, he thought.

“I’m not surprised,” Bucky shrugged. “Have you ever known her to cook?”

Steve thought through the years he had known her. “She made microwave popcorn once,” he said. “To be fair, Clint’s microwave was looking on its last legs already, but - ”

“Steve!” Natasha called to them. “This is the place!”

It was small, little more than a counter, but boasted NEW YORK’S FINEST PIZZA SLICE in bold red lettering on just about every surface.

“Dollar pizza?” asked Steve.

“The finest,” she confirmed, turning to the counter. “Three slices, please.”

The slice was large enough to overhang the flimsy paper plates by a good inch, the surface shining with the grease that had bubbled forth from the cheese.

“This is my favourite place to eat,” she said, gesticulating with her dripping slice.

Steve tried the pizza: the crust was thin, but not crispy, the sauce was slightly underseasoned, and the cheese to sauce ratio was a bit scant.

“Nat,” he said carefully, “are you sure this is New York’s finest pizza slice?”

“Yeah,” she said, chewing a mouthful of crust. “It’s just... fine.”

“It’s definitely... fine,” agreed Bucky.

“It’s cheap and adequate,” Natasha continued. “It brings friends together, and it keeps you alive.”

“And it’s definitely oily,” said Bucky. “That’s... parts of the spirit of Hanukkah?”

Steve smiled. It was indeed the... finest pizza.


	7. Brisket

“Look,” said Bucky, bringing the heavy cast-iron to the table, “I know you’ve made your feelings quite clear about Mom’s fruitcake, but if you have any opinions about her brisket…”

Steve chuckled. “Nah, she did a good roast, Buck,” he said. “So do you, if the smell’s anything to go by.”

It was not something Bucky did often; indeed, as much as super-powered metabolism meant they got through pretty generous portions, an entire family’s worth of slow-braised meat was well beyond their usual weekend fare, but he and Steve had much to celebrate.

“I dunno if it’s as good as Mom used to make,” said Bucky, serving up two generous portions of the meat, along with the meltingly soft carrots, potatoes, and onions.

“Tough as old boots,” said Steve, his smile betraying him. 


	8. Two Scoops of Raisins

The difference between December and the rest of the year was that the rest of the year was busy, and December was busy turned up to eleven. So when Bucky asked, almost sheepishly, to do as little as possible on the last night of Hanukkah, Steve grasped the opportunity with both hands.

It was an uncommon luxury to spend the entire day in pyjamas - apart from that midday break where they shed their tshirts and trunks and made leisurely love, then showered, then made love again in the shower, then grudgingly dressed in as little as comfortably possible. Steve stole Bucky's shirt for the rest of the day.

"What the hell are we gonna do for dinner?" asked Bucky. "I... need a break from eating food before the Christmas parties start happening."

Steve nodded. "We could just... eat a bowl of cereal, to be honest."

Bucky smiled. "Perfect," he said.

Steve poured two bowls of raisin bran into their striped stoneware bowls, and topped up with milk. It was plain and light, a balance of crunch and mush.

"You know," mused Steve, "if Tony were here, he'd tell me bran flakes are grandpa food."

Bucky scoffed, sitting on the kitchen counter, legs dangling over the cupboards. "Hey, just because he thinks he's too cool to stay regular doesn't mean it's fucking grandpa food."

"You're damn right," Steve agreed. "Plus, one of the benefits of having a light supper?"

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Do go on," he said.

"We're not too full for an after dinner treat," replied Steve, setting the empty cereal bowls in the sink.

"What were you thinking?" asked Bucky. "I think we've got some ice cream in the - "

But Steve cut him off before he could finish the thought, winding his arms around Bucky's waist.

"Not ice cream," he whispered, bringing his lips to meet Bucky's, slowly and softly.

"Damn, Stevie," Bucky sighed, leaning into his embrace.

"Wanna go to bed early?" asked Steve.

"Oh yeah," breathed Bucky. "Let's go celebrate."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed Bucky and Steve's soft holiday times! What foods do you like to enjoy at this time of year - or what foods do you desperately wish you could avoid? Leave a comment down below, [and do come say hello on tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com)!


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